


A Long Awaited Reunion

by sailorboo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwarves are great, F/M, Part of this is pining Warden love, Reignited Feelings??????, Reunions, They really don't get enough love, and the other is pretty much me geeking about dwarves and my warden interacting with other dwarves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorboo/pseuds/sailorboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Leliana. This is a terrible idea,” Josephine whispered as the two women briskly walked away from the War Room, heading towards her office. Leliana led the charge, taking brisk strides with her hands clasped behind her back. Josephine walked a few paces behind, papers and letters from foreign dignitaries clutched in her arms. “While I don’t object to entertaining the King,” Josephine continued, “as it would no doubt do wonders for our alliance with Ferelden; but the the Grey Warden — the Hero of Ferelden — as well? At the same time? Surely you, of all people, have heard the rumours—“<br/>“Yes Josie,” the auburn haired woman sighed, her eyes focused on the large wooden door at the end of the hallway. “I know. I have heard the rumours. Many times.”</p><p> </p><p>After almost an entire decade apart, with little to no interaction between them, King Alistair and Warden Aeducan are unknowingly reunited at Skyhold. A lot has changed between them, but some things - like romantic feelings - have remained the same.<br/>Basically a 'what if' fic concerning my Warden and Alistair. Plus: DWARVES ARE GREAT <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warden comes to Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hello!
> 
> Like mentioned in the summary, this is a 'what if' fic about my Warden (Dwarven Noble) and King Alistair reuniting after a decade apart. Plus my Warden just reuniting with her buddies and hanging with her fellow dwarves because why not?
> 
> PS. Dwarves and Quanris are great. Dwarves especially - they deserved better backstories/ canon inclusion in DA:I \\_(ツ)_/

Lit torches were scattered across the walls of the corridor. The flames cast shadows upon two figures as they stepped out from behind a door. Neither made a sound or spoke a word until the door’s iron latch had closed softly behind them.

“Leliana. This is a terrible idea,” Josephine whispered as the two women briskly walked away from the War Room, heading towards her office. Leliana led the charge, taking brisk strides with her hands clasped behind her back. Josephine walked a few paces behind, papers and letters from foreign dignitaries clutched in her arms. “While I don’t object to entertaining the King,” Josephine continued, “as it would no doubt do wonders for our alliance with Ferelden; but the the Grey Warden — the Hero of Ferelden — as well? At the same time? Surely you, of all people, have heard the rumours—“

“Yes Josie,” the auburn haired woman sighed, her eyes focused on the large wooden door at the end of the hallway. “I know. I have heard the rumours. Many times.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Josephine’s brows knotted into a frown as she bent forward, her whisper now a coarse hiss as she spoke. “Are they true?”

“Which one?” Leliana asked, feigning innocence as she opened the door, holding it open for Josephine as they both stepped inside.

The fireplace in the far corner was alight, flames crackling wildly as their light danced on the adjacent stone wall. The fire’s warmth filled the room, though the darkness and cold of night had seeped into Skyhold some hours ago.

Eight hours they had spent in the War Room, huddled together over the War Table, discussing strategies and tactics, while barely stopping for tea and a light supper. It was all very tiring, and Josephine was restless and exhausted — as was Leliana, but unlike the Antivan, she hid her fatigue under her façade of emotional steel.

Closing the door behind her, the spymaster walked to the nearby desk, her footsteps softly echoing as she crossed the stone floor.

“Don’t play coy with me Leliana,” Josephine huffed as she followed, dropping the stack of papers in her arms onto her desk with a loud thud. As she braced herself against the desk with one hand, the Antivan beauty raised the other and poked her long-time friend hard in the shoulder. “You travelled with the Hero and the King during the Blight. If anyone knew about their past relationship, it would be you.”

The spymaster trailed her fingertips along the deep Antivan mahogany surface, drawing them through the slightest of cracks and groves, silently admiring the craftsmanship. “And you of all people should know that I am not at liberty to say, even if I knew,” Leliana retorted, her voice light while her expression held no proof of a lie.

A noise, somewhere between a grunt and a whine, escaped Josephine’s tightly pulled lips — a sound Leliana found amusing. The corner of her lips twitched into a soft smile.

“Sometimes,” Josephine huffed, “I wonder why I put up with you.” She sighed, pressing a dainty hand to her forehead, her fingers rubbing small circles into her skin.

“Regardless of whether you know of their romantic history or not, Leliana, I know for a fact, from a contact in the Royal Ferelden Court, that the Hero and the King did not part on good terms as everyone was led to believe. And as far as I am aware, neither party has made any moves to amend their decade long spat.”

The Antivan frowned, her brows creasing together as she raised her head, looking Leliana straight in the eyes. “So how, may I ask, do you think that inviting them both to stay at Skyhold, at the same time, is a good idea?”

Leliana was quiet for a moment, her fingers continually tracing the wood grain of the desk, deep in thought. Then she looked up to meet her friend’s gaze, her pink lips forming a sly grin. “I don’t, but it’s out of my hands. Aratyth— the Hero of Ferelden, is travelling here on business.”

“Business?” Josephine asked, one eyebrow cocked upwards in disbelief as she crossed her arms across her chest. “With who? The Inquisitor?”

The spymaster gave a curt shake of her head. “No. She didn’t say. Though knowing her, she will probably seek out the Grand Enchanter.”

The Antivan was quiet, shocked into silence. She asked, “Why Fiona?”

“Unfortunately, she happened to leave that information out of her last letter, so your guess is as good as mine, Josie,” Leliana sighed, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of her auburn hair behind an ear.

After mulling the whole affair over in her head, Josephine let out a tired whine as she pulled her chair out of her desk and collapsed into the plush leather cushions. “I wish you had told me sooner, Leliana. Now I have to write Maker-knows how many letters to the King’s council and to his majesty himself, asking him to delay his Royal Trip a few weeks—“

“It will be fine Josie,” Leliana cut in with a wry smile. “Have a little faith. The maker moves in mysterious ways — perhaps this chance meeting is what they need to finally make amends with one another?”

Josephine cast her friend an unamused frown and pressed her tanned fingers to her temple. “One can only hope, Leliana. Because, if this all goes wrong, the Inquisition could be one alliance less.”

 

* * *

 

_A week later. A month or so after Corypheus’s defeat, but before the events of Trespasser_

 

The earth beneath Aratyth’s leather boots squelched and sloshed in the snow, sinking her further down till she was all but drowning in a sea of white with the darkest of scowls upon her weathered face. One would think, that after spending a decade on the surface, the warden would have come to grow fond of the diverse weather and seasons, but she hadn’t. The surface was unpredictable. Drizzly rain one day, and sunny skies the next — how the surface dwellers got anything done with all this instability was something she’d never fully understand. At least in Orzammar, you knew what to expect: warm dirt streets at your feet; rivers of lava that warmed the air; hard, dark stone caverns; stale air with the tiniest hint of nug shit; and traitorous younger brothers who killed their own to ascend the royal throne — it was the little things she missed. Yet for all the complaining and dramatic spats she had about the surface world, she had to admit that it had its perks. Unfortunately for her, the cold winter air and freezing snow were not one of these so-called perks.

Gripping the reins of her mount — a beautiful spotted Dalish All-Bred mare with a light blonde mane, whose former owner had fondly named ‘Honeydew’ — Aratyth took a gander at the sky. Above her, the clouds grew dark and dreary, with the distant rumbling of thunder lingering in the distance. She sighed heavily. It was just her luck to be stuck in the eye of a snow storm while travelling through the Frostbacks. The dwarf knew she should have spent less time dawdling in Halamshiral, bargaining with merchants and playing a few songs on her fiddle in the local tavern to earn a quick silver, but she couldn’t help herself.

Aratyth smiled absentmindedly, casting a glance at the pack on the horse’s side. Inside was the Antivan wooden fiddle she had received from Zeveran some years back; a gift that ‘matched her lively, free will spirit, and with curves that — like their beautiful owner — left much to be desired’. The dwarf shook her head and sighed. He was never subtle that Zeveran; ever the blunt and unashamed flirt. But by the Stone, how she missed him and his banter.

“Certainly could use it right about now,” she murmured aloud.

Hearing a distant bark, Aratyth snapped her head down to the road, eyes gazing at the grand expanse of snow that littered the terrain. At the end of the road, prancing and jumping about in the white mush, was her trusty mabari. Though he was old, he barked excitedly as the snow around him turned into fine, white powder as he jumped and raced about. His tongue dangled from the side of his mouth as he leapt into the air, bitting at the snowflakes as they floated down from the heavens.

“Kallak!” She called out, fighting the urge to break into laughter and instead broke into a fit of muffled giggles. “Veata! You’re going to fall off a cliff, jumping around like that.”

For a moment, Kallak paused, staring at his owner as he stood in the snow, ears perked and rump raised in the air. Then without a second thought, the dog went back to his prancing and snowflake catching, as If he had never heard her call. Shaking her head, Aratyth brought a hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Mabaris,” she muttered, casting a sideward glance at Honeydew. “They may be loyal to a fault, but they have a mind of their own, even if it borders on the imbecilic.”

The horse said nothing of a meaningful reply. It blinked slowly with its long snowflake dusted eyelashes and snorted, a puff of hazy white breath briefly emerging from its nostrils before dissipating into the air.

“Mhmm,” the dwarf murmured as they continued down the road. The beginnings of a large fort appeared on the horizon, protected by the curve of the surrounding mountain ranges. “My thoughts exactly. You’re pretty wise for a horse, you know that?”

Honeydew snorted again, shaking its mane free of falling snow.

“Of course you do.”

 

When Aratyth and her two animal companions approached the gates of Skyhold, the sky above had erupted into harsh winds and falling snow. Against the force of the wind, the dwarf pushed through, her eyes squinting to see the light of lanterns at the other side of the bridge. Her heart took a leap of joy. Soon she would be welcome to luxuries well-missed by a life on the road: a warm bed; a hot supper; an even hotter bath; and the long missed company of her dear friend, Leliana. Despite the storm that was raging around her, Aratyth found herself breaking into a wide grin. It had been years since the two had properly spoke, face-to-face. Of course, they had exchanged letters wherever possible, and Aratyth knew that her fellow rouge was keeping tabs on her travels, but it wasn’t the same. She missed the bard’s company and presence at her side, reassuring her with every bold decision she made, for better or worse.

Aratyth sighed. They had so much to catch up on.

Beside her, Kallak let out a keen whine as he pushed through the thick wall of flying snow. He was cold to the touch, Aratyth realised as she reached down to stroke the mabari’s head. The pang of excitement in her chest vanished, replaced with a sense of dread and worry for her loyal companion.

“Just a little further Kallak,” she cooed reassuringly. They were close now. Only a few more dozen steps and they’d be at the gates. “We’re almost there.”

The mabari gave another whine and pressed his head into her hand. Touched by his returned feelings of concern, Aratyth gave him a small smile before turning her attention to the approaching steel gates. Behind the distant steel bars, she could just make out the shapes and voices of guards standing and arguing with one another, their silhouettes barely illuminated by the dim torchlight

“Ser! Ser! I think I see someone!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No one in their right mind would be out in this storm.”

“But I’m sure of it! There! With the horse!”

The older guard squinted, his chestnut eyes clouded by the want of sleep, straining to see anything beyond the flurry of the storm around them. “You must have the eyes of a hawk, Emile. I can’t see a bloody thing.”

 “Hurry up and open the gates!” Emile hissed, stamping his iron pike on the stone floor. “Before they freeze to death!”

“I’m not opening the gates because your eyes are playing tricks on you—“ the older guard chided, but stopped mid-sentence at the sound of a throat clearing cough from the other side of the gate.

“Uh. Excuse me?” Aratyth said with her prettiest smile as she waved at them through the holes in the bars. Small flakes of snow were speckled across her cheeks. “Perhaps you could open the gates for me? I assure you, I am very much real. And cold. Very, very cold.”

Slackjawed and wide-eyed, the older guard quickly jumped to attention before turning away, barking orders at the pair of recruits standing by the gate’s opening mechanism. With a few pulls of the wheel, the gate began to rise, its linked chains rattling as they moved.

The younger recruit, Emile, beamed down at Aratyth before taking a low bow.

“You must be the Grey Warden that Mistress Nightingale spoke of,” he said with the widest of smiles. “Welcome to Skyhold, my lady. Please follow me.”


	2. The Warden's first days at Skyhold

When the gates had finally risen, Aratyth was led to the stables by Emile. There she handed her steed over to the Inquisition’s horsemaster — a kind yet firm man who had very little time for pleasantries — before following Emile up a stone staircase and into the kitchens, with Kallak close at her heels. Once the wooden door had closed behind them, Aratyth made a bee line straight for the open fireplace. She let out a heavenly sigh as she raised her fingers over the fire, feeling the flames’ heat melt the ice in her bones. Beside her, Kallak stretched and bowed in front of the hearth, warming his rump in front of the fire.

“Much better,” the dwarf sighed as she reached up, pushing back the fur-lined hood of her winter Grey Warden rouge armour, revealing a thick head of light blonde hair, pulled up into a messy bun. The light from the fire bounced off each barely-coloured hair, enlightening the few stray silver strands that hid among them. Running her fingers briefly through her loose bangs, Aratyth turned to Emile and smiled politely. “Would it be alright if I stayed here for a moment, to warm my tired bones?” She asked.

“Of course,” Emile said, bowing his head. “I shall inform the Inquisitor and her advisors of your arrival. Please excuse me.” Then without another word, the recruit hurried off, disappearing behind the door on the other side of the room.

Alone again, Aratyth sighed as she dragged a nearby chair to the hearth and sat down. The kitchen was empty, save for the dwarf and her mabari. The cooks and kitchen hands had retired to their chambers for the evening. Clean pots and pans lined the walls; preserved jams, jellies and vegetables were scattered along the shelves, barely collecting dust; and the fragrant beefy aroma of a dinner’s stew clung to the air around the pot that hung from a spit in the fireplace.

A rumbling growl of hunger broke the silence. Aratyth cleared her throat, ignoring the glance Kallak gave her, his head resting on the floor as his two front paws were laid on either side of his snout. He sighed heavily, his whole body heaving forward as he exhaled while his chocolate eyes flickered from Aratyth to the hanging pot of soup.

“No Kallak,” she said, her voice a soft whisper, as if they were not the only ones in the room. “We just got here. And I don’t know about you, but I for one do not want to be kicked out into the snow over a stolen bowl of soup.”

The dog let out a barkless huff and blinked, his gaze turning to the fire. If he could roll his eyes, Aratyth was sure he’d be giving her the most overtop, overdramatic eye roll he could muster.

“What? I’m not even that hungry.”

The room fell back into silence, with only the crackling of flame and Kallak’s laboured breathing to fill it. This is nice, Aratyth thought. She almost forgot what it was like to relax by a fireplace, warming her toes and fingers, feeling the frost melt and disappear. It was peaceful. Tranquil even —until Aratyth’s stomach growled again, louder than before.

A pink blush crept to her cheeks. The dwarf sighed and shrugged her shoulders, her lips cracking into a smile as she looked to Kallak. “Well I guess one bowl couldn’t hurt, right?”

 

Seven bowls and one loaf of bread later, Aratyth was sitting in front of the fireplace, stomach full and content with Kallak’s head resting on her knee. She let out a surprising loud burp for someone of her stature, and whacked her fist against her chest as smaller belches followed the first. Kallak let out another annoyed huff — for the poor thing was trying to sleep — and Aratyth muttered a soft apology as she ran her fingers along the side of the mabari’s thick neck.

“Sorry,” she whispered, softly chuckling as her fingertips trailed up, rubbing the fur between the dog’s furrowed brows.

“Ah, the famous Grey Warden appetite never fades I see,” a familiar, silvery Orlesian voice spoke up from the other side of the room. With ears perked high, Kallak raised his head and turned before bounding over to meet Leliana. He barked and jumped from stone pavement to stone pavement, his tail wagging happily, not at all bothered by her mysterious entrance.

“Yes, hello to you too Kal! My word, you look so handsome in your old age,” Leliana cooed as she rubbed her hands over the mabari’s head and neck, paying special attention to the curves of the outer side of his ears. Kallak gave a bark of approval and revelled in the attention she spoiled him in.

“A true grey fox, wouldn’t you say?” Aratyth chuckled as she stood to her feet, her empty soup bowl in hand. After discarding the bowl on a nearby bench, the dwarf went to greet her old friend. She pulled her into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around the woman’s waist and sighing as she closed her eyes, taking in her friend’s familiar presence. Leliana smelled like dried lavender, dusty feathers and rich leather — a scent that immediately relaxed the hidden, jittery nerves that lingered deep within the dwarf. A comfort she had sorely missed.

The Inquisition’s spymaster smiled softly and pulled her old companion into a tighter embrace, her chin resting on hay-like locks of blonde hair. “I’ve missed you, my friend,” she whispered.

“As have I, salroka,” Aratyth replied.

Their tight embrace lasted for a few minutes longer, neither woman wishing to let go until Kallak grunted and nipped at his master’s hip. The dwarf let out a small yelp and forced her arms off Leliana, tacking a step back.

“Ow! Kallak! Jealous mutt,” She grumbled, rubbing at her side as Leliana’s sing-song laugh filled the room. For a moment, Aratyth savoured it, her thoughts drifting back to nights spent in front of the campfire; the two women sharing stories and gossip with one another, while Morrigan rolled her eyes from the other side of the camp, watching, as Alistair tried to get a stubborn Kallak to fetch a stick.

Aratyth’s brow creased at the memory, her heart aching at how vividly she remembered the disgruntled look on his face, and how the flames from the campfire painted his hair in a warm orange light, giving the impression that each hair had been coated in bright gold leaf, and how handsome he looked as he turned to her with a grin on his face despite being tired and defeated and—

With a happy bark, Kallak nudged his head back into the spymaster’s hands, demanding to be petted again, breaking Aratyth from her thoughts. The spymaster happily indulged the dog’s wordless demands, running her fingertips through his fur, starting from the top of his snout and down the back of his head, before moving to the backs of his ears.

Finally, when Kallak was satisfied with the attention and pulled his head away from her hands, Leliana smiled softly at Aratyth and gestured towards the door. “Come my friend, I believe we’ve kept the Inquisitor waiting long enough. She has been eager to meet you.”

Still rubbing at the spot on her hip, Aratyth gave the red-headed woman a silent nod and followed her out the door and through the adjacent room, into the grand Throne Room.

 

The midnight meeting between Aratyth, the Inquisitor and her advisors was a little awkward considering the Grey Wardens’ recent fall from grace, but after a few ice-breaking jokes and a few chuckles, the group eased into casual conversation. During Aratyth’s retelling of the time she first met Leliana, a dwarven scout rushed into the room, letter in hand. Apparently the information contained in the letter was far too important to wait till morning and the Inquisitor's advisors politely excused themselves and ushered the Inquisitor, despite her tired protests, out of the room and behind a door. Now alone and exhausted, standing aimlessly under the giant, decorated Inquisition banners, Aratyth wasn't quite sure what to do next. Her body was aching for rest, but with no map and no general idea of the fort’s layout or where her assigned chambers lay, the warden was left stranded in the Throne Room.

She picked at the faded scar on her lip as she looked around, while her other hand reached down to pat the top of a now sleeping mabari's head. "What do we do now, Kallak?" she muttered, eyes roaming over the room's extravagant décor, taking in all the Ferelden motifs and grand mabari statues that were littered along the walls.

Aratyth turned up her nose at the sight of four sword and shield wielding Andraste statues. She never openly voiced her opinion on the Chantry and their xenophobic teachings and outlook on life; nor did she disagree that Andraste was a marvel of her time or her importance in the history of Thedas, but being the spiritual bride of some all-powerful entity? No, Aratyth could not believe that, and she had been one of the few who ventured to the Temple of Sacred Ashes before it became rubble. She saw the urn for herself and knew of its power. Admittedly, Aratyth was awestruck at first; ashes with incredible healing powers would have surprised anybody, but eventually, she conceded with Oghren’s summation of the ashes being enhanced by lyrium as it sounded more practical than some divinity blessed burnt people parts. Besides, Andraste being married to the Maker was akin to saying that her ancestors, the Paragons, were betrothed to The Stone – it just sounded utterly ridiculous. Who would want to be married to a rock? Or some immaterial being?

And in any case, wasn’t Inquisitor Adaar from the Free Marches? Why would she have extravagant Ferelden décor in her throne room? Surely the hordes of uptight Orlesian nobles would have voiced their outcry at the Inquisitor’s blatant favouritism and cut all ties with the Inquisition over their poor taste in furniture and baubles.

With a tired sigh, Aratyth pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. By the Stone, surface dwellers could be so picky, more so than her dwarva brethren. It didn't really matter to her anyway — Inquisitor Adaar was entitled to relish in whatever tastes she fancied. It was her throne room after all.

"Um. Excuse me?" The scout spoke up, whom Aratyth was unaware still lingered in the room, causing the Warden to jump in fright. She turned to see a pair of bright green eyes staring intensely at her, accompanied by auburn braided locks and a charming smile upon a freckled face. "I apologise for my forwardness, ser, but are you… the Hero of Ferelden?"

The Grey Warden folded her arms across her chest, a curious frown upon her face, hiding the beginnings of a smirk at the corner of her lips. "And here I thought I thought Leliana wanted to keep my identity a secret, what with the whole nasty business with the Grey Wardens and Corypheus."

“Well yes, but you are a woman, and a dwarf at that, in Grey Warden armour. It’s kind of impossible to not put two and two together,” the scout chuckled bashfully as she smiled.

“Fair point,” Aratyth murmured, humouring herself with a small chortle. “And let me guess, you’re Scout Harding. From the Hinterlands?”

The scout blinked in surprise, a blush burning her freckled cheeks. Confusion furrowed her brow and she licked her bottom lip nervously. “I– Yes? How did you—“

“Leliana,” the Warden replied with a shrug, as if a single rise and drop of her shoulders explained everything. “She mentioned you in one of her letters once. Didn’t say much. Something along the lines of ‘a dwarf scout joined the Inquisition a week ago. Name’s Harding. I think you’d like her, something something.’.”

“R-really?” Harding spluttered, eyes wide as she cast a nervous glance towards the door, her gaze focused on the steel latch. “I—Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

Aratyth laughed and stepped forward, patting the woman’s shoulder. “Haha! Maybe? … I think? Regardless, it’s a pleasure to meet you Harding. I can’t tell you how happy I am to talk to someone at my eye-level after so many long days, craning my neck to speak to people.” She reached up and rubbed her neck, pressing hard at the base where her neck met her spine. “I’m surprised it hasn’t broken in two.”

Harding looked from the hand on her shoulder to its owner. “The pleasure is all mine, my lady.”

“Please,” Aratyth said, cringing at the title, “Would you mind if you call me Aratyth? Or Ara? Even Warden will do.”

“Apologies, Warden.”

“There, that’s much better,” Aratyth said, her lips splitting into a grin, “Now Harding, perhaps you could give me the honour of leading me to my rooms?” She glanced down at the mabari beside her, his chest slowly rising and falling as he slept. “It appears it’s past my dog’s bedtime.”

 

For the first time in months, the Hero of Ferelden had good night’s rest; her darkspawn filled nightmares only waking her twice during the night. Sleeping on a proper mattress, surrounded by warm feather down quilts and soft decadent pillows were only luxuries she could day dream about while travelling on the road.

When she awoke, not only was she surprised to find that the storm had subsided during the wee hours of the morning, but found a few gifts as well. There was a fine selection of Ferelden sweet biscuits and a pot of fine Orlesian tea on her bedside table, and a fresh set of common clothes, neatly folded at the end of her bed, with a small handwritten note inviting her down for breakfast.

Aratyth smiled, admiring the swift loops and decadent swirls of the note’s handwriting. It was a hundred leagues more beautiful than her own, and was one of her friend’s many traits she envied, besides her beautiful singing voice.

After folding the note and tucking it under the tray, Aratyth quickly dressed into the fresh set of clothes, stuffed a few biscuits into her mouth and headed down to the dining area.

The moment she entered the hall, she was greeted by Scout Harding – who was now her official ‘unofficial’ guide to Skyhold – and was escorted to a crowded table where she was confronted with a strange collection of personalities, humbly dubbed as the Inquisitor’s ‘Inner Circle’, as well as a few other curious faces. The first to introduce themselves were a charming dwarf, with an easy smile named Varric, and a tall, stringy boy called Cole, whose ghastly pale complexion was the least of his strange qualities.

Varric, being the ever willing fellow that he was, took a seat beside her and took it upon himself to introduce Aratyth to the rest of the table while Scout Harding had some breakfast.

On one side was Sera, a Ferelden elf, who was loudest, most un-elfish elf Aratyth had ever met; a female dwarf whom Aratyth recognised from her past travels as Dagna; Dorian, a witty Tervinter mage whose charm and compliments left the dwarf with pink cheeks; and Court Enchanter Vivienne, the stunning Orlesian mage with strong connections to Empress Celene. And on the other side of Varric was a one-eyed Tal-Vashoth mercenary, with a hearty laugh who went by the title ‘The Iron Bull’; a few of his men including a ‘Vint named Krem, a healer called Stitches, an elf conveniently named Dalish, and a dwarf named Rocky. Sitting across from Aratyth was a stern, tight-lipped woman, whom Varric referred to as ‘Her Holiness’, but introduced herself as Cassandra, the future Divine of the Chantry; and a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall.

“Blackwall?” Aratyth repeated, as she reached across the table for her tenth bread roll. “As in Warden-Constable Blackwall?”

Varric poked at the pile of eggs on his plate as he watched in amazement as Aratyth scoffed down the roll without as much as a second thought. He exchanged a look with Harding and Cassandra.

“It’s a long story,” Blackwall murmured gruffly from under his thick, bristly beard, his eyes staring down at the black abyss of Orlesian coffee in his cup. “I’m ‘Blackwall’ in title only. ‘Knew the real Blackwall though. He was a good man.”

Aratyth took another roll, ripping it in half before buttering one side with butter and jam. “So… you’re not an actual Grey Warden then?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she took a bite, slowly chewing. “I’m not sure how I feel about that, being an actual Grey Warden and all.”

The man frowned into his cup, thick eyebrows pushed together, still refusing to meet her gaze. “No,” he said dryly, licking his lip. “Not yet at least. A member of the order will be here in the coming weeks to guide me through the Joining.”

The dwarf made a face, nose crinkling as she finished the rest of her bread roll, licking the remains of the sticky jam off her fingers. “I remember my Joining,” she muttered as she started on the other half, lathering it in more butter and jam than the first. “Can’t say much about the following day though. It was quite… uneventful,” she added with dry sarcasm.

Varric chuckled. “No bitter betrayal? No humiliating defeat against the darkspawn?”

“Nope,” Aratyth said, casting him a sideways glance before stuffing the jam-covered roll into her mouth. She chewed hurriedly and swallowed. “And no Blight either. It was all just one big cover up.” The Seeker cast them both a glare, not finding their little joke funny.

Varric exhaled a forced sigh. “It’s a shame. I was hoping you would be able to share some of your travels. ‘Guess I’d better find someone else to provide the material for my next book.”

Aratyth blinked, her cheeks full with food like a squirrel’s in winter. With wide eyes she turned to face him, swallowing her mouthful. “I thought I recognised your name! You’re him! You’re THE Varric Tethras!”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow and grinned, resting an elbow on the table as he leaned forward. “So even the legendary Hero of Ferelden knows who I am? I’m touched,” he said, his free hand placed over his heart.

With a smirk, Aratyth chuckled. “You should write more stories with dwarven protagonists. Like—Oh what’s it called.” She let out a frustrated sound and clicked her fingers, thinking desperately for the title of the work.

“’The Dasher’s Men’?” Varric supplied, quirking an eyebrow. “You’ve actually read it? Not many have you know.”

“Of course!” She beamed, snapping her fingers and pointing at him. “That’s the one! And of course I read it, it was the first decent piece of literature I found during my first few months on the surface. You can ask Leliana. I used to read it aloud at camp to Kallak and Alistair—”

Aratyth stopped herself and stared at Varric, who stared back, brows raised, waiting for her to continue. By the Stone, she couldn’t even speak the man’s name without her stomach twisting and turning into knots!

As she felt her cheeks flush, the Warden quickly averted her eyes as she brought a fist to her lips and cleared her throat before speaking. “W-what I’m trying to say is. In short, I liked it,” she muttered as she reached for the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She grabbed a red, ripe apple and sunk her teeth into its skin with a loud, crisp ‘crunch’.

Varric hummed and nodded, casting a quick glance at the other members of the table. “Well,” he said a moment later, “maybe I will write another dwarven hero. Maybe even make it a love story.”

Across the table, Cassandra had paused and looked up from her plate of eggs, clearly intrigued by the idea. Even Harding, Vivienne, and Dorian had stopped what they were doing momentarily to listen in on the exchange.

“Mhmm. It will be tragic story, of course,” Varric continued. “Two souls finding themselves on a journey together, brought upon them by fate.” His lips curled into a smirk as he counted on with his fingers. “One, a human male, with secret ties to surface royalty. The other, a dwarven female, once a dwarven noble, banished from her home for a crime she didn’t commit.”

Aratyth frowned, her eyes narrowing as she threw him a glance, but said nothing.

With a shrug, the dwarven author went on. “Both struggle with their ties to nobility and find common ground in their plight, which leads to a very sweet love affair. But eventually, the relationship ends when the hero is forced to choose duty over love,”

“And?” Cassandra spoke up, completely enthralled in the story’s premise – much to Aratyth’s horror, “do they get back together?” Noticing the Warden’s alarmed expression, the Seeker and future Divine quickly played down her interest.

Varric let out a loud, chesty laugh. “Well, Seeker, unfortunately I haven’t thought of a fitting ending yet. But perhaps, our very own Hero could give me an idea or two? The story will be dedicated in her honour after all.”

Beside him, Aratyth was stiff as a board. She quietly stared at the apple in her hand, watching as its juice dripped down the red skin and sullied her fingers. She swallowed the mush of apple in her mouth and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “That’s quite a story, Varric,” she murmured, her chestnut eyes flashing up to meet his gaze. “Though I’m afraid, I’m not much of a writer. But if you want my honest opinion…”

He leaned toward her expectantly, a smug, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Cassandra and the others, who had decided to eavesdrop, listened in while looking as inconspicuous as possible.

“I think you should work on it,” she said, shrugging her shoulders as she stood up from the table, placing the remains of her apple on her discarded plate. “It needs more drama, like, oh I don’t know... Maybe a scene where the hero slits a man’s throat in his sleep for poking his nose into private matters that do not concern him? Hmm?”

The table fell into silence. Only the muffled, high-pitched giggles of Sera from behind Dagna’s hand breaking the quiet.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. Then without as much as a grunt, Aratyth held her head high and stormed off to see where her loyal mabari had run off too — at least he wouldn’t bring up the past.

 

Kallak, having lived a life on the road beside his master, was getting on in his life and was spending his first day at Skyhold sleeping among the hay in the stables. Straws of hay rustled with each breath of air that he exhaled through his nose. When Aratyth finally found him an hour or so later, her face broke out into a soft smile as she watched his sleeping form, observing quietly as his body rose and fell.

She knelt beside him and pressed a hand softly against his neck. “Look at you, old boy,” she whispered, the tips of her nails rubbing his short fur. “Sleeping the morning away. Can’t say I blame you though. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to put our feet up and relax huh?”

Kallak let out a snort in his sleep, his ears flopping up in the air for a moment before falling down again. The hay under his head swayed back and forth, in time with his breaths.

Aratyth chuckled. She adjusted her position, sitting cross-legged beside him, draping one arm around his back and side. Quietly she sat there, her fingers rubbing small circles into his fur, feeling for ticks and fleas, and thankfully only found a few of the latter. As she picked them off one by one and smushed them with her thumb and forefinger, Aratyth cast a side glance at Varric as he leaned against the stall’s wooden frame. He gave her a smile, but she did not return it.

“Did Leliana tell you?” She asked, her gaze turning to her boot as she wiped her fingers on her heels.

The dwarf chuckled and shook his head. “No, not that I’d bother. Nightingale would have killed me where I stood if I asked.” He then shrugged his shoulders, the gold chain around his neck clinking softly against his chest. “I met another Grey Warden dwarf in a tavern just off the Imperial Highway, near Lake Calenhad. ‘Said he was on Warden business. Really liked his booze.”

“Oghren,” Aratyth sighed.

“The one and only,” Varric nodded as he stepped closer. “Don’t hold it against him though. He’s as loyal as a mabari that one, even when he’s shit faced.” Folding his arms across his exposed chest, the dwarf smiled as he stood beside her. “Y’know, he almost drunk my wallet dry before his tongue started to loosen. He had a few choice words with me about my interest in you too. ‘Told me that you already had your heartbroken by that ‘sodding nug-humper of a human warrior’, and that he’d make a noose out of my chest hairs and hang me with it.”

She looked up to meet his eyes. “And let me guess. You, being a master author, did your research on the Hero’s travelling companions and found only one human warrior in their company?”

“Bingo.”

Exhaling a deep sigh, Aratyth shook her head as she ran a hand through the loose hairs that had fallen out of their tight bun. “I should visit that old drunk sometime,” she said, thinking aloud. A longing look of fondness softened her features. “I wonder if he’s still in Amaranthine.” Aratyth closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Varric?” she asked softy.

“Yes?”

“While I have always secretly wanted to be immortalised in a scandalous interracial romance novel – and admittedly, I would probably enjoy it a little too much – I think you know as well as I do that publishing such a work could not only could ruin your career, but would give some Ferelden nobles some serious fighting power. Enough to usurp a certain King’s throne.”

There was a pause as Varric stroked his stubbled chin. He nodded. “True enough,” he murmured.

“But you’re still going to write it aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

Aratyth sighed as she rolled her eyes, though the small smile on her lips betrayed her annoyed façade. “Well then, even with my blessing, you still need _his,_ and _he_ is all the way in Denerim.”

Varric shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “Oh don’t worry, I’ll know in a few days if I have his blessing or not.”

The Warden scoffed and raised an eyebrow, her hands returning to pet her sleeping mabari. “You actually wrote to him? You wrote to the King of Ferelden, asking for his approval on a romance novel, involving him? You have some real balls, ser.”

“No,” he replied, tilting his head to the side. “He’ll be here in a few days’ time. I plan on asking him then.”

If Aratyth’s eyes could expand any wider, they’d have bulged out of their sockets. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly going dry. Surely Varric was joking. The King of Ferelden – Alistair, was coming here? To Skyhold? While she was here? This was worse than a an Archdemon-filled nightmare!

Aratyth stared up at Varric like he had punched her in the jaw. She was sure this was all just an elaborate prank, like some rite of passage. She shook her head. No, that was ridiculous! Leliana would never put her through that, she would have cut the culprit in their sleep before they could even go through with their prank.

Standing awkwardly, shifting on his feet, Varric raised an eyebrow and coughed, clearing his throat. “So… am I right in assuming that you didn’t know?”

“No. This is the first time I’ve heard of his visit.”

He grimaced and held a hand out towards her as she moved to stand. She took it and he hoisted her to her feet. “Well, this is… awkward,” he said, offering her an apologetic shrug. Aratyth smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Wiping her forehead, Aratyth sighed. As tempting as it was, it wasn’t in her to turn tail and run. Nor would she hear the end of it if word ever reached Oghren or Nathaniel back in Amaranthine. They’d never let her live it down; the once great Warden-Commander of Ferelden, tongue-tied and frightened of the king she helped put on the Ferelden throne. At least Sigrun would be somewhat supportive – or at least Aratyth hoped she would.

At her feet, Kallak stirred in his sleep. He let out a loud, soundless huff, blowing hot air on her leather boots. Aratyth smiled weakly at him, then at Varric.

At the very least, she would have a few days to mentally prepare herself for the impending reunion. And if all else failed, she was sure she could muster up a brave face and push through a few days of awkward conversations and small talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long chapter - Sorry! I was originally going to split it up, but they would have felt too short.
> 
> Also, forgot to mention this before:
> 
> Kallak = War  
> Salroka = Friend  
> (source: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dwarven_languages_and_phrases)


End file.
